


Fox

by lukewarmdogg



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukewarmdogg/pseuds/lukewarmdogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter Fox, otherwise known as Courier Six, narrates her story in an incredibly snarky mannerism, starting with the night the Powder Gangers changed her life forever. She was born and raised in Freeside, but at the age of nineteen ventured into the Mojave to become a courier for the Express. </p><p>Meeting the popular companion mod Niner, she quickly becomes best friends with him and takes him along with her on her journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few things I'd like to clear up.
> 
> 1) It's only the first chapter that the Courier is 14 years old. The rest of the story, she's 19. But you'll see that in the next chapter when I write the time skip.
> 
> 2) Niner isn't an actual Bethesda created character and he ISN'T MINE EITHER. He belongs to this awesome modder right here: http://www.nexusmods.com/newvegas/mods/48002/?  
> I highly recommend you guys download him and try him out. 
> 
> 3) I apologize in advance for any type of lore errors I might make in the Fallout universe. This is mainly for my own enjoyment, though, and isn't a serious project so don't expect me to go back and rewrite any of it either. :/ 
> 
> Thanks for reading. xx

"Oh. You done whoring for the night?" I asked my mom sourly, slamming the door to our mostly desecrated apartment as I let her inside.

She shot me a glare, her green eyes almost as sharp as mine. The only real difference was that hers bore the signs of crow's feet on the edges. She was still dressed in her Gomorrah outfit, a revealing black prostitute's attire that showed off almost her entire body. Her nipples were only concealed by two little X's that were dangerously close to falling off.

"I was making money," she snapped, and reached inside of a pocket to pull out a fist full of bottle caps. Just as I was wondering where the hell the pocket actually was located on the tiny, almost-nonexistent costume, she dumped the currency onto the cracked coffee table and the caps rolled in all different directions.

Our entire apartment was just as torn up as the rest of post-apocalyptic New Vegas. Cracks in the foundation had distorted the walls, causing giant rifts in them. There was even a massive gaping hole between our living room and the next apartment over-- Mom had said it looked suspiciously similar to the shape of a super mutant. The idea of a super mutant busting a giant hole in our wall somehow just did not surprise me at all. The furniture was lacking, as it had always been. For as long as I could remember, we'd had the same ratty couches we both slept on. There was a fridge in the kitchen and a few dirt-stained counters, but those didn't get used much.

I spent most of my time shooting giant rats on the streets of Freeside with my 9 MM pistol in order to get any kind of dinner. My mom got fed at Gomorrah, and usually wasted all our bottle caps out gambling on the Strip. It was usually just me by myself, trying to scrape by. For almost fourteen years, I had fended for myself.

"What are you going to do? Use it to pay off the mortgage?" I asked sarcastically, gesturing to the inside of our desecrated apartment complex. A light haze settled over the atmosphere, giving everything a dusty and irradiated look. The mortgage thing was a Pre-War joke, of course. No one actually had house mortgages anymore. Everything was essentially in anarchy, despite the NCR's best attempts to shape it all up. People didn't pay for homes anymore-- they fought for them, tooth and nail. My mom had already cleared out her own spot in Freeside by the time I was born; but once I was old enough to learn how to survive myself, she had let me take over. Shooting pistols was a skill I learned like Pre-War kids might have learned to ride a bike without training wheels. For as long as I could remember, I'd been fending off angry Freeside homeless people from the fires I built outside to cook my food.

"I'll do what I want with it," she grumbled, and flopped down onto the ruined plaid couch that was farthest from me. She sank into the cushions, looking like she might close her eyes. Her wavy dark brown hair had been tied in a bun, but little strands were falling out and curling around her cheekbones. I basically looked like a mirror image of her but in a younger, fourteen-year-old form. And instead of wearing a Gomorrah outfit (obviously), I was dressed in torn boys' Pre-War wear that consisted of a sweater vest and dirt smeared trousers.

"I'm sure you will," I said shortly, and turned back to the pistol I'd left sitting on the counter. Turning my back to her, I started loading ammo into it. I spent a longer time than necessary doing it, just praying that she'd fall asleep and I wouldn't have to talk to her again.

My wish was granted.

It was at least an hour into the night that I started hearing the commotion outside. I had spent a lot of time attempting to clean my gun with a dirty towel, perched on the couch opposite of my mom when I started hearing the distant sound of muffled yelling and hoots of laughter. I felt my entire body go rigid; it sounded like a gang of men. Bottles were smashed and drunken cries echoed through the streets, seeping into the apartment by way of the destroyed foundation and split-open walls.

My mom rustled, turning over in her sleep and facing the other direction as if she had somehow heard the noise.

 _It's cool,_ I thought weakly. _If we wait it out, they'll pass by._ Usually wasted men in Freeside are looking for a way into the Strip, not scavenging run-down apartment complexes for supplies.

They didn't pass by. The sounds only grew louder and louder, and the conversation became more and more audible through the building wall.

"Lookin' for a place to hole up... Yeah..."

"Check this 'ole shack..."

"...at least it has three and a half walls."

There was the sound of a deep, rumbling laughter accompanied by more drunken hooting. Then there were knuckles rapping on the front door. The brittle wood made a hollow sound, and echoed throughout the mostly empty expanse of apartment complex. It seemed to bounce off the walls, piercing my eardrums with every knock.

Any other fourteen-year-old would be scared shitless-- anyone else wouldn't know how to react. But I had been doing this for quite a long time, and as soon as the knob rattled, I sprung up from my spot on the couch without a moment's hesitation.

"Mom, get up," I hissed urgently, getting my weapon at the ready with firm fingers. "Honestly, get your ass _UP_ \--"

"W-what?" she exclaimed, hastily shooting up into a sitting position. Her bangs stuck to her forehead and it was evident that a bit of drool was smeared across her cheek. "What's going on?" Her eyes flickered to the front door, surprise playing out on her expression at as she slowly pieced together what exactly was happening. She scrambled to her feet, barely making it off of the cushion as the door suddenly burst open, practically swinging off of its rusted hinges.

The lights of Freeside flooded into the apartment, illuminating even the dusty corners of the room. Four large men towered in the doorway, clad in dirty button downs and slacks, covered in large jean-colored jackets with the logo 'NCRP' printed across the chestpocket in faded letters. _Powder Gangers_ , I thought instantly. Escaped railroad convicts from the NCR. Only one wore a bulletproof vest, and he stood at the front, looking just as surprised to see me and my mom as we were him.

There was a surprised yell from one of the men in the back, and suddenly the sound of a gunshot cracked through the air, piercing my eardrums. Watching in frozen horror, I saw my mother stumble, blood flowering across her dress just below her collarbone. She collapsed, falling backwards and colliding with the hardwood floor.

A cloud of dust billowed upwards, illuminated by the light flooding in from outside. " ** _NO_** ," I screamed, tears spilling out from my eyes and my vision a blur of dark colors. I aimed towards the men and shot my pistol, praying it would hit at least one of them where it hurt. I knew this was it-- I was going to die anyways. Outnumbered, cornered, nowhere to go.

The bullet soared, lodging itself in one of the men and causing a scream of pain. I blinked the tears from my eyes, seeing that the one I had shot was balding and old, and he looked every bit like he might kick my ass as he doubled over in pain.

"Aghhh," he cried out, seizing his pistol from his belt and starting forward as if he was about to shoot me.

"Stop. Just hold on for ONE sec," the vest guy said, halting him in his tracks. "Before any of you dumbasses shoots first and asks questions later, like you JUST DID, hear me out for jus' a second." His voice was gruff and a bit raspy, as if he spent a lot of his time choking down cigarettes. "A, uh, contact of mine is in the White Glove Society inside the Strip, and rumor has it that they are revertin' back to their-- how to put it-- cannibalistic traditions."

He turned towards me, a sinister, crooked-tooth grin spreading across his features. He took a step across the threshold, his boots crunching on debri.

"You wanna turn her over to the Gloves?" a powder ganger on the left asked, sounding alarmed.

"They'll pay us a pretty penny," the leader agreed with a nod, stepping over the fallen body and moving towards me. "Jus' tie her up and we'll take her to the Ultra Luxe in the morn'."

I considered my choices; I could either bolt now and risk being gunned down by four angry convicts at once, or I could wait it out and see if they were stupid enough to narrowly escape from. Since my chances of survival were looking pretty slim on the first option, I mentally settled for the latter. The tears were drying on my cheeks, and I looked up at the Powder Gangers defiantly, holding my chin high.

"We'll use the rope from the pack, Joe," one of the men said, rummaging in what looked to be a group travel bag. Now that they had gotten closer in proximity, I could make out their appearances in better detail. The leader, Joe, was an African American man that looked to be in his thirties. He had dark stubble, cruel black eyes and a crooked-tooth smirk. One of the other convicts, the one pulling the rope from the bag, had ginger hair and wrinkles around his mouth. The last two looked very similar, with balding heads and watery blue eyes. I distantly wondered if they were related.

"Hurry up," Joe barked, sounding impatient. He unholstered his gun and pointed it in my direction, approaching me slowly. "Drop the weapon."

I obeyed without giving too much thought-- it was all apart of the plan now. I released the pistol, allowing it to clatter clumsily to the ground. The ginger-haired man rounded on me, rope at the ready. Seizing my hands with his strong grip, he wrapped the scratchy material around my wrists, his meaty fingers then clumsily tying it into a securing knot.

"Sit down," Joe ordered, the barrel of his gun still in my face. I cooperated, falling to my knees on the dusty hardwood flooring. My eyes kept flickering over to her mom's corpse, and nausea washed over me with an astounding amount of strength.

"Yo boss, I think this 'un here was her mom," one powder ganger said, kicking the dead body so it turned on its side.

"No shit?" Joe snapped, looking for all in the world like he might kick the other man in the stomach. "Why else would they be living in the same apartment?"

"I 'unno," he replied, giving a lazy shrug. A crooked grin tugged at his lips. "I think I saw her at Gomorrah, this 'un. Probably the sexiest dancer," he said, almost wistfully. "Maybe her daughter got some of that skill."

Suddenly four pairs of beady eyes all swiveled to me, and the nausea I had felt earlier in the pit of my stomach was only growing.

"How old are you, kid?" Joe asked, looking mildly disgusted by his comrade's suggestion.

"Fourteen," I choked out hoarsely, my throat feeling swollen and my tongue too big for my mouth. Sweat was starting to perspire on the side of my forehead.

"See?" Joe said, lowering his gun back to his holster. "Too young. No place would buy her unless they were sick ass bastards into pedophilia, ya idiot."

The red-head snorted, throwing himself onto the couch that my mom had been sleeping on only minutes before. "And tha's why we're sellin' her to a buncha cannibals on the Strip, right? Cause they ain't sick bastards?"

The other Powder Gangers followed suit, situating themselves in places to get comfortable. The two that looked like brothers took the other couch-- my couch. I tried to ignore the fact that I was squatting in the dusty corner while a bunch of assholes made themselves at home in my bed.

Joe pulled out a pack of cigarettes, leaning against the dirt-smeared wall as he took one out and lit it. Taking a long draw, he exhaled a puff of smoke before finally speaking again. "They're sick bastards, alright." He grinned nastily towards me. "No offense, kid. But it's every man for himself-- gotta do what it takes to survive. Sorry this dumbass shot your mom, too. Coulda fetched a good price for the pair of you together."

"I thought she was a hostile," the ginger man said defensively, looking cross. He hadn't bothered moving the corpse, which was laying across the floor at a sideways angle.

"Well, MY arm paid the price," one of the brothers hissed, and I squinted in the dark to see the bloody wound on his shoulder. That was him, alright. I would have laughed if I hadn't felt so numb and in shock.

"Shut up, Will," Joe snapped, snuffing his cigarette out on the wall. He threw it onto the floor and stamped it out some more before going to take a spot next to the ginger on the opposite couch. "Everyone get some rest. I'll keep first watch on the brat."

After that, all of the pointless chatter ceased. I was left staring into space, feeling the scratch of the rope cutting into my skin. Tears welled up in my eyes again as I began to smell the stench of death originating from my mom's body. I wasn't sure how much time passed after that, but the soft sound of the men snoring began to mix in with the sniffling of my nose as I cried. Joe didn't say much. At some point in the night he moved the corpse to the kitchen, tucking it behind the island counter so it was no longer visible. I realized my time was ticking.

When Joe had his back facing me as he situated Mom's dead body, I wiggled forward, tilting to the side so I could use my bound hands to reach for the pocket knife I had stashed behind the old fireplace.

Desperately trying to grasp it with my fingers, it took me a moment before I felt the cool metal against my skin. I scooted back, knife in hand, just as Joe returned. Then I began sawing. Using the sharp end, I began to wear down the rope around my wrists, cutting each little string. Trying not to move my arms too much was the hardest; sound wasn't much of an issue, considering the volume of the snores blanketing the apartment.

At least an hour later, Joe shook the ginger-haired man awake and muttered something to him about switching watch so that he could get some shut-eye. And so they did. I quietly finished sawing the rope, and felt it fall from my wrists to the flooring. Still clutching the weapon, I considered my next course of action. Redhead was looking sleepy-- his eyes were already drooping, his lids beginning to flutter shut. I figured in just a few minutes time, I would have a chance.

I did.

Pretty soon they were all snoring; every single one of them was passed out. Light was starting the streak across the sky of Freeside, and I could see the early morning pinks and oranges from a crack in the wall.

Slowly picking myself up off the floor, I crept across the debri and the spotty hardwood. Stepping in all the places that my body remembered didn't creak, I slowly and carefully made my way behind the couch and towards the exit. I had considered picking up my pistol, but I didn't want the rattling to wake any of them up. My hand was on the knob now. Twisting it, I slowly began to pull the door open.

And there was a creak. A long, loud, whining creak of the hinges.

"H-HEY," I heard the ginger man bellow, scrambling upwards into a standing position.

But I was gone. Bolting down the apartment complex stairs and hitting the torn-up concrete streets of Freeside, I ran, my thin legs pumping as fast and as hard as they possibly could. The desecrated buildings of the once-beautiful city loomed over my head, and just in the distance a large, makeshift sign with pasted-on pastel letters read 'Freeside'.

I considered ducking into an alleyway, but knew that there would probably just be homeless junkies looking to kill me somewhere in it.

With not many options, I ducked behind a charred, black car. It looked like it had maybe been quite a vehicle in the Pre-War days, but the nuclear warheads had desecrated all of its beauty.

Then came the shooting. I knew it was going to start, so when nine millimeter bullets began whizzing past my head, I wasn't in the least bit alarmed. I knew I had to make a run for it. I glanced over to the apartment complex-- all of the men were pouring out, and so far only Joe was shooting at me.

Taking a chance, I darted away from cover, moving as quickly as at all possible. And then a bullet struck the vehicle.

It instantly exploded, radioactive material billowing into the air and the blast practically shaking the ground. I stumbled, my eardrums searing in pain at the force of the vibrations. I collided with something broad, and looked up in alarm to realize it was a man with slicked back black hair and a leather jacket. One of the Kings.

"Woah there, little lady, what's the deal?" Like most of the Kings, he was a decently handsome man, with a friendly demeanor and dark eyes.

"Powder Gangers," I gasped, pulling him around the corner of the building instinctively. "They're trying to sell me to the Ultra Luxe."

"What?" he demanded, shocked. Pulling out his ten millimeter pistol, he held it at the ready. "Why?"

"I don't know," I said breathily. "He said they were cannibals or something."

Just then, the red-headed powder ganger rounded the corner. In one quick shot, the King member landed a bullet in the center of his chest. Blood stained his button down and he fell, collapsing to the pavement.

There were a few cries of surprise and outrage from what I knew were the other men.

"Let's go," my savior said, taking me by the arm and pulling me away from the scene. The School of Impersonation was only a little ways off, and I knew I'd be safe there.


	2. Niner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunter manages to blow up a powder ganger camp outside of Primm, and meets an unlikely friend along the way.

Years passed.

After my mom's death, the Kings adopted me, honing my fighting skills and teaching me to more or less be one of them. I was probably the only girl in the entire School of Impersonation that wasn't a groupie or a prostitute. The King gave me a place to stay, and in return I did a lot of scavenging for him in the wasteland. By the time I was nineteen, I had made a solid name for myself in the Mojave.

I spent a lot of time blowing powder ganger camps up. No, I'm surprisingly not exaggerating. My stealth and the fact I frequently managed to jack their own dynamite to nuke their establishments started traveling across Nevada. People all over started seeing me as a form of pest control, wiping out all of the hazardous and illegal powder ganger camps scattered across the desert. 

They started referring to me as the Fox, due to the fact my full name is Hunter Fox. It was kind of corny, but I let it slide. It gave me good business whenever I decided to put myself on the market for mercenary work. 

It wasn't until I left the Strip and started really getting myself out there that my story really started. And I'm going to share it with you here.

\--

"Look, a bunch of wasted fuckheads," I murmured to myself, adjusting the scope on my rifle to get a better look at the powder ganger camp. 

Not that there was really all that much to see. It was just a bunch of drunken convict rednecks, gathering around a giant bonfire and getting so smashed that they could barely even sit up properly. One of them had his head lolling back so far on his shoulders, I was afraid he might either fall off the lawn chair or accidentally choke on his own tongue. There were only a couple guys on watch duty, but the rest of them-- oh, eight, maybe ten-- had abandoned their weapons completely and were sipping out of what looked like bottles of whiskey. 

My stomach rumbled. I could smell the scent of roasting coyote meat, and it was heaven to my senses. I hadn't gotten to eat anything in a day or so, due to the shitty lack of hunting prey outside of Primm. I had been dropping by to get my newest package from the Mojave Express-- a tiny parcel that was supposed to be taken to the Strip and delivered to the Lucky 38. I hadn't really gotten much information on it other than it was worth a few thousand caps, which sounded like a good enough gig to me. 

Anyways, with my incredible luck, I ran into one of my favorite things-- a powder ganger set-up. I wouldn't really call myself a straight up cold-blooded killer, but when it came to the escaped convicts, I killed them in a heartbeat and took basically everything they owned. I guess you could call me a raider, except I didn't really identify with any of the crazy ass cults in the desert like the Jackals or the Vipers. I was completely solitary, and it worked like a charm. The Kings had tried over and over to make me a people person, but it had never really worked. My tongue was too sharp and my wits too quick to really deal with partnering with others. Plus, it had never been my style. I'd been on my own since basically birth. 

The Mojave sun was, as usual, a pain in my freaking ass. It was an orange-red firey ball in the sky, lowering itself to the dusty horizon of the desert. You could see the radiation-infected atmosphere even clearer during sunsets like these, when every particle was caught by sunlight. And then there was the towering, desecrated roller-coaster in Primm only a couple miles down the road.

My eyes weren't on the sights, though. I was adjusting my scope, looking towards the outer edge of the camp for any sign of dynamite. 

Surely enough, I spotted the crates. They were sitting a few feet from the bonfire, beside one guy's tent. I was amazed by the skyrocketing amount of stupidity the powder gangers were displaying when I noticed that the boxes were completely unguarded. The guys they had stationed on watch were on opposite sides of the camp, leaving their weapons in a blind spot. 

"Fan-fucking-tastic," I muttered, shifting to the other side of the boulder. All I had to do was throw maybe one stick of dynamite on the far end of camp and they would all be out of my hair. I had to make sure I didn't nuke any of the food supply, though. 

"Guess I'll just distract them," I murmured to myself, and cocked my weapon. Aiming straight at one of the guards, I aligned the target on my scope with his skull. Pulling the trigger, I felt the bullet explode from the barrel. 

Bulls-eye. I hit him straight in the center of the head, blowing his brains out and causing his body to crumple like a rag doll. His partner yelled in shock, jumping back and pulling his pistol to the ready. His NCRP jean jacket had blood spattered across the front. 

"Come and get me, bitch!" I bellowed, standing from my cover. 

I had approximately two seconds to run to another cover before one of the eight guys shot me somewhere potentially fatal. 

There was an uproar of drunken yells and exclamations as the men scrambled to their feet, seizing their discarded weapons. "It's the Fox," I heard one of them shout, his voice full of obvious panic. 

Grinning, I ducked and ran. Bullets started flying, zipping past me as I darted to the next rock.  
_It had worked._ When I looked again, all of the guys had gone to the left side of camp. Or, at least, most of them. Only a few remained closer to the bonfire. 

"Get the dynamite!" one of them yelled, and there were a few strangled noises of agreement. 

I was laughing. It was too late. My gun slung over my shoulder, I seized the crate of dynamite, quickly dragging it back to my cover. Ripping it open, I reached in, getting one out. Hastily seizing the lighter in my fanny pack, I lit it, only taking a second before I chucked it to the far side of camp. 

The explosion was massive. It shook the ground, blowing rock debri and dust in every direction. 

"What the _hell_?" a gruff voice suddenly rang out, coming from behind me. Shock and adrenaline coursing through me, I whipped around, pulling the rifle from my back. I was face-to-face with another powder ganger, but he also had a prisoner with him. 

The prisoner was a young man with toned arms, a black vest and torn jeans paired with black Converse. A couple of NCR dog tags were slung around his neck, but he didn't look like an NCR soldier. He had a red bandana tied around his forehead, and his hair above it was messy and dark brown. It stuck up in all sorts of different directions, and a sideways Pre-War ball cap was thrown on the top of his head. He had a patch of facial hair just under his lip, and his dark blue eyes sparked with a faint mischievous glint. His arms appeared to be tied behind his back, and he stood a few feet behind the powder ganger. 

"God damn," he said, his voice a strange Northern accent that I hadn't heard before. "And I thoug' livin' next to New California Fucksupblic was interesting. This is like flyin' kites, but instead of kites it's sticks of dynamite." 

"Shut the hell up, junkie," the powder ganger snapped, physically shoving him back. He turned back to me, eyes flashing. "Get on your knees and put your hands above your fuckin' head--"

But he never got to finish that sentence. Because suddenly there was a dagger in his neck, and he was gurgling on his own blood. 

The prisoner had sawed his bindings off somehow, and they lay discarded on the ground.

"Wha'? You thought I was just gonna sit idly by while this prick shat on my dignity?" he asked, pulling the weapon roughly from the ganger's neck. He wiped the blade on the back of his jeans, making a grunting sound that sounded like a noise of disapproval. "Man, there should be a law against havin' to stab someone and get blood everywhere RIGHT after you get done washing your pants." He sheathed it on his belt. "Well, now tha's over with--"

"No, it's really not," I said hurriedly, turning around just as powder ganger came rushing around the boulder. Shooting my gun just in time, I sent him barreling backwards and crashing into the ground. Blood flowered across his chest, and in just moments it was clear that he was dead. 

When I turned around, the prisoner was kicking the body of the powder ganger over, ripping the sniper rifle off of his back. "Giant fuck decided he'd take my sniper," he grunted as he took great pains to make sure the gun was fully loaded and the strap was over his back properly. "Well, got news for you, pal--"

But he never got to finish delivering the news, because the boulder just in front of us exploded. Shards of rock went soaring in every direction, and I felt myself being sent flying backwards, my vision blurring as my skull slammed into the ground. Dots danced before my eyes, and I distantly heard the sound of screaming.

After a few moments of delirium, the dust finally cleared. The prisoner had gotten up, and was on one knee using his sniper to take out the last couple powder gangers. Bullets flew, and just as I was wondering why I kept being missed, I felt an explosion of sharp pain on my leg as I was clipped just above my left knee. Rolling over to avoid the next bullet, I got to my feet as quickly as possible. 

Grabbing my rifle, I stumbled a little, struggling to regain balance. There was only one thug left. 

Just as I considered reloading my weapon, the prisoner sniped him in the head, causing him to instantly drop his pistol and fall. 

The clearing was full of dead bodies, blood, dynamite and dust. And to make matters worse, I was pretty sure they'd also obliterated most of the food. 

"God _damn it_ ," I cried out, kicking one of the dead bodies with frustration. "That wasn't even a part of the plan." I rounded on the un-named prisoner. "I was seriously about to get some squirrel bits and then _you_ and that jackass showed up and ruined basically everything--" 

"Woah, man, you gotta calm down abou' the squirrel bits. They ain't good--" 

"Yeah, no kidding. They're full of irradiated fungus half the time, but they're still better than starvation," I said, but my tone had gone from accusing to just plain dejected and exhausted. 

The man rustled around in his backpack, and produced what looked like a pre-War chip bag. He stepped forward-- around a dead body, I might add-- and handed it to me. "Want some potato chips? Picked out most of the green parts," he said with a casual eagerness, as if somehow proud of himself for being able to pick apart disgusting decade-old chips. 

I was kind of confused. I totally didn't know this guy, but he was offering me probably his only source of food. I took the bag hesitantly, and tucked it in my fanny pack. I would have to inspect it for poison later. "Uh, thanks. I mean, assuming they aren't rigged with some kind of crazy poisonous shit. Who are you, anyways?" 

"The name's Niner. That powder ganger-- nasty bastard, lemme tell ya-- found me outside of Primm, when I was stealin' some Jet from his backpack. Got pretty pissed after that. Said I'm a lowlife, locked me up. Well, joke's on him, because now he's bleeding out in the middle of the desert.  Anyways, other than the occasional action, I'm kind of a drifter, y'know?" He had a relaxed demeanor, with a low-pitched but humorous voice that gave off the impression that everything he said was basically a joke. "Anyway, enough about me. What d'they call you?" 

"I'm Hunter. Hunter Fox," I replied, tentative about what all I should reveal to him. Not that he seemed particularly threatening.

"Nah, I don't like it. S'too hard to remember. What do your friends call you?" 

"I dunno. I don't really have any nicknames. Or friends," I said.

"Well, you're probably gonna need one with, y'know, a name like that." 

"How did you get yours?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Get my what? Tha's my name, man." He looked at me like I had just insulted his mother. "C'mon, throw me a bone. People don't call you anythin' else?" 

"Your name is literally a number," I said, laughing pretty unexpectedly. "With a random 'r' thrown in at the end." 

"Niner ain't a number, its a--" he made a frustrated grunting noise as he attempted to put into words what he was trying to describe. "Ah, jus' quit askin' questions, we're onto you now." 

"Right," I said, grinning. "Well, I work at the Mojave Express and they call me Courier Six there." 

"Six? Yeah," he said, sounding excited. "Yeah, that works. O-K Six, back to business. What are we gonna do with all of these caps and bullets?" He gestured around to all the bodies waiting to be looted. 

I shrugged. "Split it all, I guess. Since you helped me clear out camp."

"You don't need the caps, pal?" he asked, and looked genuinely curious but also surprised by my nonchalance to the money. 

"I'm delivering this package to the Strip, and--" I paused, realizing this probably wouldn't be the best bit of into to share with a stranger holding a sniper rifle. 

"Wha'? What is it, Six? C'mon, we're huntin' pals now. You can tell me anything." He slung his gun over his back, looking at me with his own equivalent of puppy dog eyes. 

I sighed. He really did seem harmless. "I have this thing to deliver to the Lucky 38, and it should be worth a couple thousand caps." 

"Ah, you're goin' to the Strip too? What a coinkidinks," he said. "The Lucky 38-- ah, man, tha's serious. You sure it isn't golden toilet paper in that box? Mr. House himself will prolly use it to wipe his ass." 

I laughed out loud, amused by the image. "Damn, probably. Whatever it is, it must be pretty important." 

There was a brief moment of silence as we started looting all the bodies, sparing what we could considering most of them were blown to bits. 

"'Ey, where we headed to next, Six? I mean, before Vegas." 

"We?" I asked, and started feeling amusement welling up in my throat like I was about to laugh. This guy was hilarious. We had only just met, and he _actually_ thought we were traveling the Mojave together. 

"Yeah. We... As in, you and me. You dig?" He threw an empty bag on the ground, kicking it out of his way with a Converse-clad foot. 

"I guess," I said passively. I had never traveled with a companion before, so the idea was pretty foreign to me. He seemed interesting though, so I was willing to give it a shot. I figured if he wanted to try anything, I could probably take him out in a heartbeat. 

"Tha's great, pal. Now we ain't loners," he said cheerily, looting the last body. He retrieved only a couple bottle caps, throwing them into his backpack. "Anyways, abou' business. Where we headed?" 

"Somewhere with edible food," I said instantly. "We should probably make sure I'm not starving before we start heading to the Strip."

"Ah, how about Goodsprings then? The people there don' have shoes, buut they do have food. An' they're pretty laid back, so I doubt they'd go shootin' you in the face or killing your whole family or anythin' like that." 

He had started taking the lead away from camp, back to the fragmented gravel that used to be a highway. I followed him, making sure my weapon was in place. 

"Alright," I agreed, giving a shrug. 

"You ain't the enthusiastic type, eh Six?" Niner asked, falling into step beside me. I didn't look at him except with my peripheral vision. 

"Nah," I said shortly. It was true I wasn't being very conversational, but I didn't exactly know or trust the guy yet. 

"What if they told you your pet mantis was dead? Shot in the leg by one of those redneck powder ganger bastards? Would you give a reaction then?" 

"Pet mantis?" I asked incredulously, kicking up dirt with my boots. The sun was setting even lower now, darkness starting to slowly descend on the Mojave. The highway stretched out in front of us, and nothing but a desecrated billboard and the outline of Primm was behind us. 

"A mantis, Six," Niner said, sounding exasperated. "Like one of those mutated green bastards you see out in the wastes. I used to have one of 'em once. He was just like a dog-- except he made a lot of clicking noises and scared the fuck out of people." 

I couldn't help it-- I laughed again. I couldn't even remember the last time I had ever been so entertained by someone I'd met in the Mojave. 

"Where are you from?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Niner fell quiet. "S'not important, Six. Just this shithole town over in the California Republic. Lived there with my brother. Before-- before..," he trailed off, and for the first time since I'd met him he looked completely serious. "Ah, never mind. Don't wanna be a Debbie Downer, y'know?" 

I felt a twinge of sympathy. I still remembered the night my mom had gotten hit by that bullet and then kicked around across our apartment floor like a rag doll only minutes afterwards. I tried to change the subject.

"I'm from the Strip," I said casually. "I lived with my mom in Freeside until powder gangers killed her. Then the Kings raised me." 

"You're from the Strip?" Niner asked excitedly. My plan had obviously succeeded. "Man, you gotta show me all the ropes. I suck so much ass at Blackjack--" 

And then we were talking about absolutely nothing for at least a good hour as we walked down the road to Primm. 

I didn't even realize then that the guy I'd just met was going to end up being my best friend. 

 


End file.
